“All I wanna do
Is write some fun
I won’t tell ya
But you’re not the only one
All I wanna do
Is write some love
Until the sun comes up over Minuteman National Park…”
– not Sheryl Crow
Not me, not us, not them.
up the path, words taken back, habits reattached.
up the scroll, heart on the toll, paid in full.
just an internet person, not a real person, not anymore.
a previous window, a former format, an erstwhile conversation.
Hope floated, mistakes gloated, egos bloated.
Just as far as hope.
Dip into the seafoam and try to trap the bubbles in the webbing of my thumb.
to be kind. to find time. to hold hope.
These are images from Charlottesville, Virginia last night. These are white people in their twenties and thirties. Like me. These are people who are in my generation, the millennial generation, the one frequently lambasted for “participation trophies” and “needing safe spaces.” These are people that look like my coworkers, my colleagues, my brothers, my cousins. […]
Long as the bills get paid, right?
If there’s no matter of emotional fallout, I really don’t see the problem.
Are you just SO DONE? I know, baby. I know. Go get Under the Papadome (free! my gift to you) and you will feel SOOOOO much better. I promise.